


charity

by Anonymous



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Fluff, Harry Potter Epilogue What Epilogue | EWE, Harry Potter is tragically heterosexual, Hogwarts Eighth Year, Light Angst, M/M, Minor Hermione Granger/Ron Weasley, Post-Battle of Hogwarts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-31
Updated: 2019-01-31
Packaged: 2019-10-19 12:37:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,680
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17601494
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: In which Hogwarts is disastrously understaffed, and Neville Longbottom finds he has something in common with Draco Malfoy.





	charity

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Helenish](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Helenish/gifts).



_Trouble has done her good,_  
_trouble has stopped her trivializing everything,_  
_giggling too much,_  
_glittering after other people’s husbands._

 _Trouble has made her think;_  
_taken her down a peg,_  
_knocked the stuffing out of her._  
_Trouble has toned down the vulgarity._

 _Under the bruises she looks more deserving:_  
_someone you’d be glad to throw a rope to,_  
_somewhere to send your old blouses_  
_or those wormy little windfalls._

_—“Charity,” by Connie Bensley (1984)_

•

Nothing much could surprise Hogwarts anymore. After the siege of the Death Eaters, and Harry managing to kill Voldemort despite having been, apparently, somewhat dead himself, it took rather a lot to shake up the place. Repeating the entire school year was the least of anyone’s concerns—and all of them did have to repeat it, from the beginning, because most everyone had managed to completely forget whatever it was they were supposed to have been learning from the start, thanks to Umbridge’s having micromanaged actual education nearly out of existence.

So no one was terribly surprised that the sudden shortage of instructors meant for some decidedly singular, to say the least, appointments. After several brief but fierce staff meetings with McGonagall, who was now head of school, everyone but Hagrid rotated to cover the most important vacancies. To their dismay, those who weren’t teaching were assigned to help with the ongoing clearing-away of rubble and reconstruction of various rooms and halls (supervised by Arthur and Percy Weasley, the latter of whom politely suggested quite a few helpful modernisations).

There were some unusual new faculty members, but no one much minded, since it was only temporary: George Weasley closed his shop to teach Transfiguration, since Minerva couldn’t do both; Neville Longbottom took over basic Herbology, just until someone else could be found; Harry continued with Defense Against the Dark Arts, though it became rather more theoretical, to everyone’s relief, perhaps especially his; and Hermione oversaw the first-years in Potions, all the while explaining to anyone who would listen that it was only until someone more qualified could be hired, and anyway they were just doing the very first few spells in Arsenius Jigger’s _Magical Drafts_ , and perhaps Slughorn might even be persuaded to return after he had recovered a bit, whether from his weak chest or his unfortunate tendency toward theatrics—until finally Ron told her in no uncertain terms that she should stop her gob, and just accept being good at something. (At least, that’s what everyone assumed he’d said, since Hermione emerged from their high-pitched argument in her office a bit flushed and rumpled, and a great deal quieter.)

What did surprise everyone, however, was that around the middle of that first term back, Minerva let a grateful, and still quite exhausted, George go back to Diagon Alley, and instead appointed Draco Malfoy to teach Transfiguration.

No one had really seen Malfoy for weeks, even Ron and Harry, who had stayed over during summer to help with clean-up and construction. The truth was that they’d all had better things to think about, or at least more pressing issues, until the morning in October when an owlet, still wobbly on its wings, arrived for Harry. He read the note, then rubbed at his forehead and sighed.

“What’s that about, then,” Hermione asked, with deceptive lightness. They still weren’t quite used to eating at high table, and she was always on them about manners, especially Ron, who for the most part ignored her and kept his elbows firmly at either side of his plate.

“Wizengamot,” said Harry briefly, and scrawled down something for the owl to carry back, while it pecked delicately at a scrap of crumpet.

“What does old Elphias Doge want with you now?” asked Ron, starting to look concerned.

“Malfoy,” Harry said, even more briefly. He sent the owl on her way with a pat and went back to his toad-in-the-hole, and a third cup of tea. Mornings would never be his strong suit.

“Like anyone cares what happens to _him,_ ” said Ron, but it lacked some of its sting. It wasn’t like a Weasley to kick someone when they were down, and Draco was as down as anyone could be.

For it had come to light after the battle that the Malfoys were in fact completely and utterly bankrupt, and plain old blackmail had been responsible for at least a few of Draco’s more appalling choices. Lucius had, of course, turned state’s witness on every Death Eater he could think of to name; he sang like a canary and thus would evade life imprisonment, but was still being held in Azkaban. Narcissa was forced to leave the Manor and move into Andromeda’s spare room, with most of the Malfoy-Black possessions auctioned to pay off outstanding debts.

Additionally, in one of the weirder post-Death Eater developments, McGonagall had assumed responsibility for Draco, despite his not having so much as a Knut to his name, and agreed to keep him at Hogwarts under close supervision. She had even gone before the Wizengamot to advocate on his behalf, arguing that he should be given another chance to complete his education. At seventeen Malfoy was still too young for what remained of the Wizengamot to feel comfortable sending him to Azkaban, and the overall ethics of sentencing someone to life in Azkaban had come into question anyway, with the end of the Death Eaters. So with Harry’s corroborating testimony, the Wizengamot (already quite overwhelmed with all the other trials underway) had unanimously agreed: if Draco didn’t misbehave, and passed his NEWTs like the rest of them, he would be considered merely a magical juvenile offender. He wouldn’t be tried as an adult when he reached majority, but could go on with his life, or what remained of it.

“Malfoy? But I thought he was still on house arrest,” said Hermione.

Elphias Doge had provided McGonagall with a Custodium, an almost invisible fine silver loop that shimmered a little beneath Draco’s robes, and apparently made him limp when he walked, the few times anyone had seen him. If he’d tried to leave school grounds, the ankle monitor would have simply Apparated him back inside, but Draco seldom even left his room, a small bedsit just off the infirmary; he’d been moved there after the battle, suffering from an illness the nature of which McGonagall would not discuss, but the Trio privately reckoned was some kind of magical poisoning, possibly something of Bellatrix Lestrange’s doing.

“He is,” Harry said, after he’d finished his tea, and could speak in complete, albeit short, sentences. “He still needs minding.”

“Minding?” asked Ron.

“The Custodium has to be attached to someone, that’s how it works,” said Harry. “And it’s been me, but I’m busy.” _Busy_ wasn’t quite the word for it; in addition to being prefect and Dark Arts substitute teacher, he was also helping Percy with the construction of a new Quidditch pitch. He took off his glasses and cleaned them absently on the sleeve of his robe. “I need to leave on school business, but I can’t, as long as we’re tethered.”

“Harry, you didn’t say,” Hermione chastised, but it was gentle, for her. Ron sighed.

“Oi, let us have a go then.”

Harry was silent, apparently considering this. “It’s decent of you to offer,” he said, after a moment, “but I’m not sure that’s a good idea. The Custodium isn’t like a Muggle ankle monitor, it has—there’s a kind of connection involved. Draco’s an Occlumens, but he’s still got the Dark Mark, and it’s not—I don’t think you’d like it much, Ron. Nothing personal.” Ron made a visible effort not to appear relieved.

“Still,” Harry went on, “something has to be done with him, and Doge wants to know what. He’s well enough now to be out of the infirmary, and he can’t be having a lie-in every day, and doing bugger-all while the rest of us poor s—oh, excuse me. Good morning, Headmistress.”

“Potter,” said McGonagall, who was passing behind Hermione, and paused. “I trust we do not need to have another conversation about appropriate language at high table.”

“No, no, not at all,” Harry said. Minerva inclined her head slightly and went on her way.

They sat there for a moment in silence, Harry toying with his teaspoon, until finally Hermione spoke. “Harry, there’s got to be _someone_. It shouldn’t always have to be you.”

“But there isn’t. McGonagall’s got her hands full, and there aren’t any Slytherins left. Not one.”

And this was true: every single Slytherin parent had withdrawn their offspring, whether out of fear, shame, or unfortunately typical Pureblooded fastidiousness (not to say bigotry). No one had even visited Slytherin House on Old Home Day, except for Narcissa—and everyone had seen her leave weeping, Draco having sent her away, white-faced and silent, refusing to speak to her or about her—or for that matter, to speak at all. He was never seen at meals, or out of doors, or really anywhere besides the passageway down to the vacant Slytherin common room (which came very last on the Weasleys’ list of repairs still to be made, as the damage there had been merely cosmetic). Draco seemed to be using it as his library, and could sometimes be seen late at night going into or coming from it with an armload of books, limping slightly. He certainly wasn’t attending classes, and no one knew how he was going to pass his examinations in the spring. The rumour mill worked overtime, for a while—the Hufflepuffs argued that he’d probably never even wanted to become a Death Eater, and had only taken the Mark under the effect of the Imperius curse, or worse, and was suffering horribly; while the Ravenclaws mostly fumed that his sentence had been so light—but there were so many other more pressing matters that, after a time, everyone seemed to have forgotten about Draco Malfoy.

Or almost everyone.

“I’ll do it.” This came from Neville, who had been down at the far end of the table with his nose in Spore’s _One Thousand Magical Herbs and Fungi_ , and seemingly hadn’t been paying attention. Hermione jumped a little, when he spoke.

“You’re a good sport, Neville,” Harry said, “but that’s really not—”

“I don’t mind,” said Neville. “If it’d help.”

“Well,” Harry said, and then paused. “That’s. Actually that’d be brilliant, Neville, if you’re sure.”

“It can’t be worse than—you know.”

Harry looked at him, eyes suddenly sharp. “It’s not. Nowhere near.”

“Then it’s sorted. No worries,” Neville said, and stood up to go to class, closing his book over one finger to keep his place.

•

If everyone hadn’t been so preoccupied, they might have noticed that one evening around the middle of term, Neville Longbottom had knocked on the door of Draco Malfoy’s bedsit, carrying a cheese sandwich, a green apple, and a book, and emerged an hour later with an empty plate. The portraits had all agreed to embark on a period of collective mourning for the fallen, so they stayed out of their frames, and kept uncharacteristically silent about the fact that Neville had been back a couple of nights later, and the night after that, and that you could often hear their quiet voices rising and falling, if you cared enough to pause in the hallway and listen.

Malfoy was also, of course, a highly trained Occlumens, otherwise any nearby Legilimens would have been able to see through his eyes how cautiously kind Neville had been to him, and how consistently so, over the weeks. He’d had to start slowly, though, inching closer to Draco by degrees, as if he were a frightened feral cat—which, Neville decided, he essentially was. But inevitably, Draco’s utter loneliness had yielded to Neville’s patience, and they had become some species of acquaintance, if they would never really be friends.

Neville still felt wary at times; he hadn’t forgotten Malfoy’s old facility with a verbal barb. But there was something very careful in the way Draco held himself now, as though he were hurt, and half-expected to break open and spill out and dissolve into the air at any moment. This fragility made Neville feel—something unexpected, he didn’t know what; oddly protective, perhaps. And he’d noticed Draco wasn’t talking to anyone, or coming to meals, and, well, it was nothing; he’d just brought him a sandwich, that was all. He had nothing else to do in the evenings, anyway. He was just being friendly—doing the decent thing, as Gran Longbottom would have wanted, Merlin rest her soul.

And now he was invisibly shackled to Malfoy; and it was at the same time both worse than he’d expected, and easier. So, overall, confusing—a state of mind to which Neville had grown more or less accustomed.

Currently he sat cross-legged on the threadbare blue carpet in front of Draco’s small fireplace, with an open copy of _Guide to Advanced Transfiguration_ by Emeric Switch in his lap. Draco’s bedsit was unbelievably small, the size of a box-room, so that if Neville stretched out his legs all the way, they nearly reached the other wall. Draco seemed content with it, though, or at least had never tried to alter its décor; there was barely enough room for a narrow infirmary bed, a small bookcase which doubled as a nightstand, and a ugly but comfortable chair with a reading lamp.

The remains of their dinner, which had been ploughman’s lunch and satsumas, had been shoved to one side. Draco had stopped being able to eat meat, for reasons he couldn’t exactly explain; he’d told Neville once that when they’d held him down to give him the Dark Mark, he couldn’t remember anything afterwards except losing his voice from screaming, and the taste of blood or burnt meat in his mouth, a taste that now made him sick, and sort of never went away.

Neville reached out to play with the rug’s tattered, once-golden fringe, frowning slightly. They’d been talking about the headmistress’s latest substitute instructor selection.

“If Professor McGonagall thinks it’s a good idea, I don’t see why you wouldn’t,” he said, at last.

Draco didn’t look away from the fire, which he was watching intently. He shrugged, one thin shoulder barely moving beneath his robes; but Neville saw it anyway. “Not everyone at Hogwarts is as forgiving as you are, Longbottom,” was all he said. His voice was pitched low, and always was now, as though by taking the Dark Mark he’d also lost his boyhood, all at once.

“I’m not forgiving,” Neville responded, without thinking. After a moment, he amended this to: “At least, I haven’t forgotten. But I understand why.”

“Do you now,” said Malfoy, with just a trace of the old vituperativeness. He sat up, reached for the poker, and stirred the coals into life again, banging the poker against the grate rather more violently than was strictly necessary.

“Yes,” Neville said, stung, “You know bloody well I do.”

They lapsed back into silence at that, because whatever else they spoke of, in these strange evening conversations which seemed to take place outside of the rest of Neville’s quotidian existence, by wordless agreement they never, ever spoke of the worst things—never even once thought the word _Cruciatus_. They didn’t need to; it hung in the air between them, palpable.

“Look,” Draco said. “Let’s not—give it here.”

They bent together over the book again, and Draco tapped the offending passage with his wand. “One tap per syllable, and then I say—come on, _you_ try it, you’re the one who needs practice.”

“ _Linguae leviosae_ ,” Neville repeated, but the sentence refused to budge.

“Oh for Merlin’s sake,” muttered Draco, but he sounded more amused than annoyed. “Once more, and this time pay attention. _Linguae leviosae—”_ and the ink lifted off the paper and hovered a few inches above it, a single wet droplet falling back down onto the page. “Honestly, I don’t know how you got your OWLs. This isn’t even Transfiguration, it’s a charm you should have learnt in your second year.”

“I,” Neville started, and then stopped. There was no use in reminding Draco how difficult things had been for him then, trying to make his father’s wand work for him, when it just wouldn’t. Having to manoeuver around all the strange gaps in his magic, like bumping into badly rearranged furniture, after Gran Longbottom had to Obliviate the night of his parents’— _torture_ , he could say it: torture. And death, really; they were essentially dead. Draco knew all of this now, thanks to the Custodium. If he shut his eyes and concentrated, Neville could feel its twin clasped around his own ankle. For him, without the additional magic of the Dark Mark, there wasn’t weight or pressure, just the whisper-thin suggestion of something that was ineffably but completely _Draco,_ brushing up against his bare skin.

“Longbottom?” said Draco, and Neville looked up. “Try again.” Draco sent the ink back down to its paper with a precise movement of his wrist. Neville liked looking at Draco’s wrists, and his hands. They were pale and delicate, and he felt an uncomfortable strange feeling watching those hands move through the air, holding the wand so carelessly—

He became aware that Draco was sitting very near to him, and his grey eyes were fixed on him, so close that he could see Draco’s eyelashes, the same pale blonde as his hair.

Neville hadn’t forgotten any of it. He remembered what it was like to be the butt of every joke; he remembered all of Hogwarts whispering behind his back, and what it felt like to have your father and mother shut away in an institution, beyond your or anyone’s reach. Even without the anklet, and its flashes of anguish ( _a dark room, hooded faces, the sound of your own voice pleading to make it stop_ ), he knew exactly what it felt like to have your entire life ruined by Voldemort.

“Longbottom,” Draco said again, softly.

Neville cleared his throat, and this time tapped his wand for the correct number of syllables. The ink wavered, then obediently lifted up and floated in mid-air for a moment before turning bright green and splattering back down again. They both stared at the book.

“Well, you’ve got one thing right tonight, anyhow—changing colours is the _next_ spell,” murmured Draco, still sounding amused, or maybe pleased. Either way there was a pink curve to his lower lip, and the firelight was warm on his cheek, which was also warm beneath Neville’s hand, and he leant down the last few inches and kissed him, helplessly, not knowing what else to do about any of it.

Draco’s mouth was soft beneath his, and he didn’t taste of anything but tangerines. Neville felt Draco’s breath catch in his chest, where Neville’s other hand now seemed to be resting, and then it slid up to Draco’s bared throat, above his open collar. Draco’s lips parted beneath his, and the kiss moved from cautious to something spacious and wild, and a bit frightening, but good.

Draco arched toward him, so Neville kept going, since somehow things seemed to be working out well enough without his thinking too much about them. He wrapped Draco’s necktie around his fist and pulled Draco into his lap so he could kiss him better.

“That's _two_ things,” said Draco, a little breathlessly, and wound both arms around Neville’s neck, and kissed him back.

•

No one was surprised by anything, anymore, at Hogwarts, not even the afternoon that Draco Malfoy, his robes clean and freshly pressed (if perhaps shabbier than they had been before), stepped haltingly to the front of the Transfiguration classroom and asked everyone, with a delighted sneer in his voice, to open their copies of _The Invisible Book of Invisibility._ He then proceeded to berate them all thoroughly for having failed to obtain it, much less read from it, and at least one Hufflepuff left the room crying.

It wasn’t so much a surprise by then; but, nevertheless, all of Hogwarts couldn’t help but stare (and, in more than a few cases, cast dreamily envious sighs) as Neville Longbottom swung Draco into his arms and out onto the parquet for the first waltz of the Yule Ball. They looked like they belonged together, like they’d been dancing together all their lives, and it was hard not to watch them: the emerald lining of Draco’s dress robes flashing as they spun, the way Neville whispered something into his ear which made Draco throw back his head and laugh, until Neville gathered him close against his chest again and they moved together in perfect time to the music, Neville’s dark head bent to Draco’s silver one.

A few people were perhaps slightly surprised early one morning in the second term, when everyone in the Ravenclaw wing was awakened at first light by strange high-pitched, almost mosquito-like zooming sounds, sounds they’d almost forgotten. It had been warm enough to fall asleep the night before with west-facing windows open to the suddenly soft springtime air. The buzzing sounds turned out to be Harry and Draco, flying in the courtyard on a pair of new broomsticks, furiously chasing after the snitch together while shrieking at each other, and using the sort of highly colourful Muggle language of which Minerva McGonagall very much disapproved.

And sometimes, in later years, newcomers to Hogwarts were surprised that the Transfiguration master, even though he was also head of Slytherin House, still lived in a ridiculously tiny room off to one side of the infirmary (though to be fair, he spent most of his time with the professor of Herbology, who occupied the much-more cosy and capacious grange). “It’s perfectly fine,” Professor Malfoy would say, quietly, smiling that slippery half-evil smile of his, one part friendly and one part calculated to strike sheer terror into the hearts of timid first-years. “An old schoolmate of mine once lived a great deal of his life in a small cupboard underneath the stairs.”

**Author's Note:**

> As always, I would be utterly helpless without my fandom wife and editor of my deepest soul [betts](https://archiveofourown.org/users/betts/profile), best-idea-or-BEST-IDEA beta [expatgirl](https://archiveofourown.org/users/expatgirl/profile), and the poetic genius of [wildhoneypie](https://archiveofourown.org/users/wildhoneypie/profile). This all happened because I've read "[Theft of Assets, Destruction of Property](https://archiveofourown.org/works/1808485)" approximately seventeen gabillion times and yet I still crave more Draco/Neville, in the same way in which that first spoonful of crème brulée is so amazing you just want to inject it straight into a vein. Okay maybe that's just me. Anyway, for this and her many other fandom gifts (I'm looking at you, Lt. Col. John Sheppard), this ficlet is dedicated to the amazing [Helenish](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Helenish/profile).
> 
> PS: now with its own conveniently rebloggable [aesthetic](http://aerialiste.tumblr.com/post/182462158346/charity-by-aerialiste-fandom-harry-potter)!


End file.
